


Into the Deep

by House of Halation (glasshibou)



Category: Shall We Date?: Obey Me!
Genre: AU, F/M, Fluff, MC is a human sacrifice, MC kind of has a backstory but it's for like... setting reasons, POV Second Person, Promise, generic fantasy setting, it's not as grim as it sounds, the beauty and the beast/little mermaid/folklore crossover that LITERALLY nobody asked for, this owes a LOT to F+TM's water metaphors
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:34:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25868290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glasshibou/pseuds/House%20of%20Halation
Summary: Your village is suffering. The demons in the sea are hungry, your leader decides. And if nothing they've tried so far has worked to sway their temper, a sacrifice just might.(This is seriously AU like I cannot get that across strongly enough. Please take a peek at the tags.)
Relationships: Leviathan (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 88





	Into the Deep

**Author's Note:**

> You are going to die. 

This is not exactly a surprise; after all, every human must, at some point, pass away. The problem is that you never thought you’d die quite so _soon,_ without having really lived much of your life. Perhaps, when the fish stopped coming in, you should have expected that something might happen. The demons living in the sea are fickle creatures, after all, and sometimes demand tithes or sacrifices. But normally, the sacrifices are other things—prized possessions, sentimental objects, favorite stories or the rare book. You remember your mother telling you a story that she’d been told, once, of the village’s storyteller speaking herself hoarse at the water’s edge to appease the demons. It’s said that she spoke for four days and three nights and that when she passed out there on the cliffs, she never spoke again. The tales she uttered into the roiling sea vanished from her mind as if plucked by an unseen hand. Those who _did_ remember the stories never told them again, afraid of inciting the sea demon’s envy. If it wanted the tales to itself, then the village was happy to release them.

It is said that the drought plaguing the village ended then, and rain poured down for as long as the storyteller spoke. It was a success, and the village did not die of thirst or famine that year because its meager crops were fed by the rain, its wells refilled by the deluge. So it comes as little surprise that now, when the fish are not coming in and the waves are cruel, that the village’s head considered sacrifice once more.

Whispers of it gather in the dusty streets as women mutter about it behind their hands to each other. There is no village storyteller this year; the talk is of who, then, might appease the demon. It will have to be a _who,_ whisper the haggard fishermen, because _what_ has not yet brought back the fish. Your village’s fate hangs in the balance of whatever lives below the waves; without the fish there is nothing to trade for food for the upcoming winter, nothing to stock up your neighbors' larders. The trinkets and treasures that usually work have not turned the demon’s head yet.

And so, the village head declares one overcast day when the waves pound against the cliffs the town hall perches on, it will be a human sacrifice. Your gut churns as you hear the proclamation and you cannot, or the life of you, remember if that has ever been done before. There was the storyteller, of course, but that was just her voice. Not her _life._ Murmurs roll through the crowd as they all turn together and whisper _who? Who? Who?_

Will it be someone valuable to the village? Perhaps the head fisherman: he has talents and is immensely valuable. Perhaps the village matron, whose skills in healing have gotten the populace through more than one winter plague. 

No, no, the headman says, raising his trembling hands to call attention back to himself. The sacrifice will be a bride. Beautiful and young and innocent enough to make the demon hunger, to be appreciative of the village’s sacrifice enough to bring the fish back. Your breath catches in your throat because your village is not that large, nowhere near as big as some of the towns or cities down the coast, and there are only a few who fit that description. You are one of them. 

And you are still in mourning from your fiance drowning last year, still not entertaining new suitors. As far as the village is concerned, you are the bride-that-never-was, forever suspended somewhere between maiden and wife. Untouchable in your grief, with no potential bridegroom waiting to sweep you back into wedded bliss.

This is why you are the perfect sacrifice for the moment: the only life disrupted will be yours and yours alone. One devotional paid unto the demon for the good of so many souls above the tumultuous waves. The fact that just a few weeks ago you declined the headman’s invitation to spend the night has, you are sure, absolutely _nothing_ to do with his decision. 

So.

This is how you know you are going to die. 

Your hands are bound tight behind your back, and no matter how you struggle the rough rope does nothing but tear into your wrists. Your ankles receive the same treatment; your knees are bound just as tight so you can’t even try to kick out of your bonds. Not that doing so would have helped at all: you know that if you were to free your limbs, your friends and neighbors would only capture you again. With the blood cut from your feet, you know that you wouldn’t be able to run very far. 

And then there’s the fall. They have you hoisted up over their heads, hands absolutely _everywhere_ as they grab you, fisting into the ghastly white gown they’ve forced you into. It’s meant to be worn for a wedding, a macabre reminder of what’s been stolen from you and what you will never have. Demons, it is well known, like to eat hearts. You wonder if the demon you’re being sacrificed to will pluck it directly from your chest or will just swallow you whole. 

Not that it is likely to matter one way or another; you are certain to drown if the demon doesn’t come for you first. Secretly, you hope that they throw you over the cliff wrong, that your head connects to the rocky precipice and you die before you hit the water. Once, you remember, the head matron was brought a boy who’d been kicked in the head by a stubborn ox. He died instantly; there was no attempting to save him, and not even the matron’s abilities can bring back the dead. His funeral was as nice as such a tragic thing could be, his parents sobbing off to the side, and—

You snarl around your gag as you feel a hand slide up your thigh. If it’s the village head, you decide, you’ll come back from the dead to make his life a living hell. He’ll never know a moment’s peace. You’ll leave cold puddles of seawater all over his house, slip dead fish into his bed at night. Constant reminders of what he’s done to you. Maybe, over time, you’ll become a demon yourself.

That’s the only solace you get when the people below you stop moving, their destination reached. Tangy salt invades your nose and you can hear the call of hungry gulls off in the distance. Your sight is obscured by the thick swath of fabric tied around your head, caught up in your hair. Waves crash against the cliffs below you and you pray that you hit the rocks first, that you die as quickly as the boy kicked by the ox. If there is any mercy in the world at all, that is what will happen. 

Somebody says a prayer for you as you feel yourself tip over, roll from the hands that dragged you from your home and up to these cliffs. Wind snarls your hair around your face, dragging it away from your scalp as you plummet over the edge. You can feel your fingers curling and uncurling as if you might be able to stop your descent or break free of the ropes that bind you.

Luck is not on your side.

You do not dash against the rocks to break open your skull, ending your misery before it can continue. Instead, you hit the water with a force that knocks all of the air from your lungs and makes little bursts of light swim across your dark vision. Instinct is a cruel mistress that makes you breathe in, desperate for air as you sink below the waters. Cold water sloshes over your face and you have just enough presence of mind to jam your eyes and mouth shut. 

It won’t do any good, you know, because there’s no way you can swim and your heavy skirts drag you down, down, down into the dark and the cold. You consider breathing in to end your torment, to hasten the end you know is coming. Your lungs burn and ache bad enough already; you don’t know if you can handle trying to hold your breath until you can’t anymore. Better to just get it over with.

You can feel bubbles slipping out from between your lips to race towards the surface. If you could see, you would know that you’re wreathed in them as they escape from the fabric suspended around you. But you can’t see. All you can do is imagine that it will be over soon even as you stubbornly hold your breath and try to wrench your legs free, desperate for anything that might save you.

But your lungs are hungry. You haven’t even reached the deep sea floor by the time you lose consciousness.

The first thing you feel is the burning in your lungs because they feel shrunken, too small by far for all of the air you’re trying to drag into them. You heave on what feels like a solid, flat surface; your hands are still behind your back and you are still blindfolded, but you are no longer gagged and you can move your legs. Heaven could have been kinder, you decide. It’s unbelievably cruel that your spectre should be still blind and unfeeling. 

And _cold._ You shiver, snot and tears and frigid saltwater pouring down your face to drip from your lips and chin. The matron and village headman always described heaven as bright and warm and overwhelmingly pleasant, so _why_ are you freezing and miserable with your gown wet and sticky from salt against your skin? You cough and expel a mouthful of salt water; it burns as it comes up, telling you that your throat has been ravaged by the salt and sand. Over your own misery you hear footsteps, and your heart almost stops.

“Usually they just send cool stuff,” you hear a voice say, sounding like the speaker is pouting like a child. “So what are _you_ doing here?”

The demon—because that is all that you can think of that could possibly be standing before you—sounds disappointed and petulant and apprehensive all at once. It’s enough to make your head spin as you try to adjust to your new reality. 

“B-b-bride,” you stutter out as a new round of shivering takes your body. “Th-they s-s-sent me as a br-bride.” It takes far longer to spit out that information than you’d like, and you're keenly aware of how you’re kneeling prostrate in front of the demon. You try to move your fingers and discover that they’re completely numb and listen for any reaction, but the demon remains stubbornly still and silent. It’s almost as if he—because the voice sounds masculine, even if you can’t see the speaker—doesn’t want to give you any indication that he’s still there. 

You cough pitiably.

“Well, you’ll just have to go back,” the demon finally says. The bindings slide from your wrists and you feel the blood painfully seep back into your hands, burning as it goes. “I’m really busy and I don’t have enough time for a… for a bride.”

It’s absurd to think of a demon being shy, but that’s exactly what he sounds like. You frown and almost tell him that if he didn’t want a bride he could have sent a few fish her village’s way before you remember yourself. Instead, you carefully blow heat back into your fingertips; it isn’t as productive as you hoped it would be. 

“I can’t go back,” you say, trying to keep your stuttering from the cold under control. “They’ll only send me to you again. Or kill me,” you add as an afterthought. Truly, you don’t actually know what the village would do if the demon sent you on your way back. If they thought you failed and the fish were still scarce, it’s extremely likely that they’d just slit your throat over the waves and be done with it. If they were willing to toss you to your death, you know they’re willing to do more. And worse.

Your sightlessness has you growing irritated, and buoyed by the fact that the demon hasn’t killed you yet, you reach up to undo your blindfold. Your hair is tied into it and you succeed first in ripping a chunk of it out, hissing in pain as you undo the sodden knot. While you don’t particularly relish the idea of seeing a demon, you think that you might as well; after all, he’s going to have to either kill you or wed you. There is no other way out that you can see, and you’d prefer to be informed about who is taking your life. 

Because with how you’ve already been refused, you sincerely doubt he’s going to do anything as agreeable as make you his bride. 

“No, wait—don’t take that off! You’ll see—”

It’s too late. Your blindfold slides down your face to land with a splat on the floor. The sound reverberates around the room as you stare up at the demon you’ve been offered to. You crane your neck back without sitting up, still pressed against the floor.

“Me,” he finishes as red spreads across his face. You feel your mouth drop open because you’d been expecting cloven hooves and lashing, spiked tails, and razor-sharp teeth. Maybe extended snouts and slit-pupil eyes, anything that would mark the demon living in the sea as completely and utterly _inhuman._ Instead…

You sit up straight, looking for any shimmer of magic that would tell you he’s wearing a glamour, that it isn’t actually his skin.

Because instead of an untold horror, he’s _beautiful._ Purple-blue scales creep up his neck, blending into the humanesque skin that covers the rest of him—what you can see of the rest of him, anyway. He wears thick layers that cover him from head to toe, leaving only his neck, face, and arms exposed. Delicate horns like broken coral stretch up from his skull and his eyes gleam like burnished gold under hair that matches the hue of his scales.

“You—”

“I told you not to look,” he interrupts with a whine, turning his head away from you. 

“But—” you reach out to him, heedless of the way your gown hangs heavy from your frame or the way your hair is tangled around your head. 

“I know, I’m a yucky demon,” he continues, either ignoring or heedless of your attempts to speak. You shake your head, sending little droplets of water everywhere. 

“You’re really handsome,” you say quickly, almost just to get your words out. The demon stiffens and snaps his head back to you. Your eyes meet for a moment before he raises shaking hands up to half cover his eyes. 

It’s that moment that you realize the damnable sacrificial gown is almost entirely transparent because of the water. 

**Author's Note:**

> Got writer's block, decided I wanted to try my hand at something a little different... And so, this was born! It's my first time writing in second person, so let me know if I've slipped up/strayed too far from the common mechanics. 
> 
> Also, in pursuit of breaking my writing block, I'm taking prompts! [ Drop me a line here](https://houseofhalation.tumblr.com/ask) if there's something you'd like to see!


End file.
